In Threes
by fourleggedfish
Summary: Written for Wilson Fest on LiveJournal - prompt "Wilson cheats on House with Chase." Summary: Everything happens in threes, including mistakes. EXPLICIT SLASH!


This fic was written for an LJ prompt for Wilson Fest: Wilson cheats on House with Chase. Hope you all enjoy! No spoilers, I think. Probably just a one-shot, but perhaps I'll follow up with a second chapter...not really sure.

Rated NC-17

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When one of Wilson's patients died on the operating table, it seemed like one of those times when, for whatever reason, everything just fell apart. Monitors bleeped and then started screaming, the patient's blood pressure dropped, the heart stopped…such things happened now and then. They hardly ever found an explanation, except that this time, at the autopsy, there was evidence of medical negligence. On Wilson's part. Wilson wasn't even the surgeon; he was assisting Chase.

That was blunder number one.

Of course, the moment Wilson found out, he hopped the balcony wall, frantic over the pending lawsuit and the fact that Cuddy suspended his medical privileges until the outcome of the hearing before the medical board. He naively expected House to commiserate with him, perhaps offer a few banal reassurances, seeing as House had all sorts of experience with getting sued.

That was blunder number two.

House didn't even try to sympathize with him. He made some quip about how there was no good reason that he should always have all the fun, and Wilson was due to get sued by now anyway. It was ludicrous, and callous, and exactly what Wilson didn't need to hear right now. So he yelled, and House snarked back something fierce. The fellows magically found things to do far away from the Diagnostics offices, and ten minutes later, Wilson kicked House's Eames chair hard enough to bruise his foot before he stormed out.

Chase found him in the parking lot. It turned out that Cuddy had suspended him too, and when Chase invited him out for drinks, Wilson could think of no good reason to say no. Drinks turned into shots, which turned into a cab ride to Chase's rarely-used flat because Wilson had absolutely no desire to even look at House right now, and Chase didn't feel like dealing with Cameron's inevitable pity and platitude cocktail. It seemed harmless when they stumbled through Chase's door, just two colleagues sharing the fruits of their screw-ups.

Chase didn't know that House and Wilson were seeing each other as more than friends; no one did. He only knew that Wilson had finally relinquished his lease to Amber's apartment, and that for some reason, he had elected to bunk with House again. So when Wilson lowered his head and peered at him from under dark eyebrows, Chase didn't appear to have to think twice. It was interesting, at least in Wilson's mind, that Chase didn't seem to have any more reservations about cheating on Cameron than Wilson did about cheating on anyone at all. That thought quickly fled when Chase pinned Wilson back against the wall and tried to swallow his tongue.

It all happened so fast after that. Wilson grabbed Chase by the belt buckle and roughly undid his pants while Chase shoved at Wilson's shirt buttons with drunk fumble-fingers. Wilson had vague notions of bending Chase over the nearest piece of furniture, the way he often wished he could do with House. House's leg always got in the way, but Chase was young and limber, and obviously willing, and he didn't come with factory defects.

It turned out that Chase had other ideas, though, and he seemed suddenly much less drunk than Wilson. Once Wilson had managed to work Chase's pants down past his ass, Chase wiggled his hips until the fabric hit the floor, then clumsied his feet free. Then he brushed Wilson's shirt from his shoulders, bunched the wrinkled white fabric around his wrists, and turned the tables.

The next thing Wilson knew, his hands were tied up in knots in his own shirt, and his nose was buried in plaster. Chase pressed up behind him and began nuzzling at the nape of his neck, his fingers wrapped tightly around Wilson's bound wrists, holding them against the small of Wilson's back. And it didn't seem like a big deal. Wilson knew what was coming; it didn't take a sober man to figure that out. So he arched his back and rubbed his clothed ass against Chase's bare groin, and just let it happen.

Chase worked a hand around to Wilson's front and flicked his suit pants open, then helped Wilson shimmy out of them. At some point, they began staggering around the apartment; Wilson assumed they were headed toward the bedroom, but even thirty seconds after the fact, he was already fuzzy on the details. He knew that he was walking backwards, and that Chase was facing him, mouthing at his neck and throat, and still gripping Wilson's wrists through the restraint of a dress shirt. Their bare cocks grazed in the negligible space between their bodies, and Chase had a firm enough grip on Wilson's hair to keep his head bowed back, baring his throat to Chase's teeth. That was about all Wilson could process through his higher reasoning centers at once.

Eons later, they reached the bed, and Chase maneuvered him up onto his knees on the mattress, his chest and face mashed into the blanket with Chase bearing down on his wrists. The position felt like it should have been awkward, but Wilson was drunk and flying on lust, and he could almost believe for one second that it was House doing this, trussing him up and holding him face down on their bed, shoving a lubed finger into him for the first time. Because Wilson had never played this part before – the bottom. He had planned to save it, to make some sort of surprise out of giving it to House one day, for some made-up special occasion, just because it was Wilson's to give, the one last private part of Wilson that no one else had touched.

One finger turned into two and Wilson jerked at the sensation of having a doctor stroke his prostate too perfectly for words. He arched and raised his ass higher to increase the stimulation, aware that he was grunting low in the back of his throat, his head thrown back until he raised his face clear of the pillow he had stuffed it in. Chase eased in a third finger and twisted them, stretching Wilson open, pumping to get him used to the feeling. It burned in the best possible way, an overload of nerve impulses, and when it finally became unbearable, Wilson let out an agonized moan. He flexed his back and jogged his hips to meet Chase's fingers on each inward stroke, then whined in annoyance when Chase withdrew.

The sense of abandonment didn't last long. Chase grabbed his hips to hold him in place, and then Wilson felt the blunt tip of another man's penis probing at him. There was more fluid there than he had expected, and he realized that the coldness was lube smeared over a condom; that was why it felt so odd. Slick pressure suddenly breached him and he yelped more in surprise than anything else. Chase seized his bound wrists and leaned on them when Wilson squirmed at the barrage of newness, one hand still clenched on Wilson's hip to steady him. Slowly, that foreign presence filled him up, nudging deeper, a brand new expanse of sensation intruding on Wilson's inexperienced body. It felt like the whole night passed in a blur of inches pressing inexorably forward until Chase's hips drew flush with Wilson's ass.

Sobriety crashed down on him at that point. There was no way to undo this now; it was finished. And it still didn't feel like all that big a deal. Chase started to move and Wilson couldn't stop himself from angling his pelvis up so that Chase's cock rubbed against his prostate. Wilson was aroused as hell, biting his lip to stay quiet even though it was clearly a lost cause, and even though Chase obviously tried to be gentle, it felt raw. Consuming. Heat and sweat and a thick coat of musk bathed Wilson's nostrils, alien musk that didn't smell anything like the sweet, mossy tang of House that clung to their bed at home. Part of that struck Wilson as exciting, the same as it always did when he slept with someone for the first time knowing it would be the only time. The voice behind him, slurring encouragements, wasn't the least bit familiar or comforting, but it still did the trick. It always did the trick.

Chase braced himself with a hand on the mattress near Wilson's shoulder, his mouth hovering over Wilson's ear, sweat dripping onto Wilson's back, and that pressure moved in him over and over, sliding past walls of stretched muscles, thumping his prostate on each thrust. Wilson's entire body inched back and forth on the bed, his cock rubbing across the blanket beneath him until he couldn't hold back anymore. White heat seared through his body, ribbons of agony coursing along his nerves, and the pressure just kept building, edging him higher, harder, louder, more desperate until he ground himself down on the bedding and the world behind his eyelids exploded in a flash the color of House's eyes.

The next day, Wilson went home smelling of someone else's shampoo. House stepped out of the kitchen with a coffee mug in one hand and an apology in the other. He told Wilson he hadn't slept that night. That when Wilson hadn't come home, he hadn't quite known what to do. That he had tried to call but Wilson's phone was off, and that he had expected Wilson to come back to collect his things and nothing else. That he wouldn't blame Wilson if he did just that because who the hell wanted a partner like House anyway? Somebody who mocked him whenever he needed the sort of friend that House had never been. Then he said he was sorry for being such an ass the day before, and told Wilson he wanted to make up for it, that he would do better next time, that he'd try to be human once in a while when Wilson needed it.

Wilson stood staring at him until House grew a nasty case of the fidgets. Then he merely shrugged, sighed, and accepted House's apology.

And that was blunder number three.

House's face split in a wide grin, nearly giddy with relief. "So...we're good?"

"Yeah, House." Wilson gave a weak smile in return. "We're good."


End file.
